


Under the sign of the Hanged Man

by Kit



Series: space and espionage; trenches, Victoriana and magical girls: genre and period AUs [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Epistolary, F/M, Merrill puts up with no one's shit, flirting through serious discussions of religious iconography, self-imposed AU challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 10:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4301196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kit/pseuds/Kit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a slightly different Kirkwall, a young cleric and a lost clanswoman exchange letters. (Victorian AU)</p><p>  <em>Each of us is angry, Sebastian. Like speaks to like, I think. And Hawke’s <b>like</b> is large. She’s a terribly large person, truly, even when she’s just my height. My family is lost because it stands with its back to what might save it, but at least they live, and they will keep living so long as I have anything to say on the matter. And I do, forever and always and even from the Alienage. It was frightfully kind of you to help with my roof. You chose the perfect time to tell me exactly who you are in Starkhaven. Titles mean very little to me, but 'prince' has a lot of weight to it, even so, especially when added to your priestliness. Telling me of your princliness while halfway up a ladder, with leaf mould and dust all over your lovely white things was an excellent reminder that you are simply yourself.</em></p><p>  <em>Affectionately,</em></p><p>  <em>Merrill.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the sign of the Hanged Man

**Author's Note:**

> requested by the lovely [ em-cypher]() on tumblr.

Dear Madam,

I hope you will forgive this letter.  Discovering your address was a natural extension of walking you home, but my use of that knowledge is an indulgence, and foolish besides. I give you my own place of correspondence so you might know as much of me as I of you.

Our conversation from last week has been much on my mind. You speak so passionately of things that I do not understand that I find myself wishing I might know more of them. You say that you have come to Kirkwall to resolve a mystery, when I have thought this place long drained of anything but commotion and fear and a bloody transition from night into day.

Forgive me. The words do not shape how they should. It is difficult to see much brightness amongst the lost. You are an exception. Have you found yourself tangled up in more string? I hope your difficulties are easy to unsnarl.

Your obedient servant, and in the Maker’s name:

Sebastian Vael.

* * *

 

Dear Sebastian,

I suppose I ought to call your sir. That is how we are taught, even amongst the Dalish, but it all seems rather silly, since I know exactly what your name is, and who I am writing to, just as you know that I am no  _madam_ ; I am Merrill.

Do you really write in your Maker’s name? If you do, there is no need to do it for me. And I think you would need a bigger pen.

Thank you for your help, Sebastian. I was, as you say, snarled and turned right about. Kirkwall is too big and terribly small all at once. The ‘commotion’ is fascinating. I had never seen anyone knifed before I came here; not for no reason, not for anything other than a test of skill. I have now seen it five times, some right outside my window.  It is all rather strange.  It is very exciting, this being a travelling folklorist, even when there is very little travelling involved.

If you want to keep writing to me, then I will gladly read and answer your letters. You write very prettily, and it was peculiar to have someone asking me about my work without the words, “Mad woman,” or, “If you only found Andraste…” waiting for their open mouths. And you, a Chantry man.

Was that rude? I was probably rude. It is hard to tell, though easier than it would be if I was talking to your face. People’s faces are awfully difficult to read.  I do not know how to sign off this letter. All the forms sit poorly on me. I am sincere, but I am not yours. I do not know well enough to be  _faithfully_ one thing or another.  Mythal does not need me to speak in her name, and I would not wish Elgar’nan upon you even now, when he is not here to act upon a call.

I am, at the end of it all,

Merrill

* * *

 

Dear Lady Merrill,

These ‘forms’, as you call them, are useful because allow you to approximate meaning when other words are unclear. They are good for nervous men who do not know how their letters will be read. You, however, write how you speak. I shall endeavour to do the same.

 How goes your work? You spoke of broken mirrors. There are many goldsmiths and glaziers by Viscount’s way that might help in this. Are mirrors important to your people?  What is the story behind it? I know so little of this. The Chant of Light is the sort of text that is read and re-read and made anew in every space taken in the reading, and that leads to a rich interiority that is often lovely, but might be insular. I was not a scholar in my youth. Reading came slowly, shadowing vocation.  You, dear lady: you talk your way through a world of stories as if they are over your shoulder. Histories. A people I do not know, and frankly have never thought to know, combined with more knowledge of my own faith than when I began service. I find myself fascinated, and anxious over your proximity to the harsher elements of this place.

Sincerely,

S V.

* * *

 

Dear Sebastian,

Your fascination is my life. Be careful. If I am an oddity to be studied, than so are you, the soft-voiced  _shemlen_ with a dead woman worn as a belt. I am not comfortable with directions, but I know myself. This horrible of me, I’m sure, but there are too many here who think me entirely at ease with smallness, and this seems to strengthen each time I open my mouth. I do not have to open my mouth to speak to you, Sebastian. So I’m afraid you have suffer my clarity.

Stories are part of my life. You are right. I believe I told you that I was my Keeper’s First. Keepers learn lore so they can move through it, and make it grow. Marethari is like your Cleric, I think—your Divine? We have no authority higher than hers, save the clan itself, when it finds a voice. I have broken away from that, in my search. Your glaziers and goldsmiths do not have what I need, and I doubt they would admit me if they did, but I have a dwarf, an alchemist, a captain and a Hawke. All beneath the sign of the Hanged Man They are all very skilled at different things, and they’re all rather interesting. I think I may get somewhere with their aid. If I do, I will tell you about it. Unless, of course, I’ve broken your pretty, useful forms to the point where you do not know what to do with my letters any longer, and prefer not to answer them.

Merrill

* * *

 

Dear Merrill,

Forgive me. I am rasher than I want to be, except for the times I am unable to speak. It was surprise, seeing you with the good Guard Captain, but also a pleasure. Apologising for my blunders in person is a different sort of excruciating than on paper, but I was glad to do so.

Be careful with Hawke. I have had dealings with her, and she is worthy and valiant and has restored honour to my family that would otherwise be lost, aching at me and ruining me for any thought uncoloured by vengeance. But I also came to her in anger, and that is the currency she knows best.

Sincerely,

S.V.

* * *

 

Each of us is angry, Sebastian. Like speaks to like, I think. And Hawke’s  _like_ is large. She’s a terribly large person, truly, even when she’s just my height. My family is lost because it stands with its back to what might save it, but at least they  _live_ , and they will keep living so long as I have anything to say on the matter. And I do, forever and always and even from the Alienage. It was frightfully kind of you to help with my roof. You chose the perfect time to tell me exactly who you are in Starkhaven. Titles mean very little to me, but prince has a lot of weight to it, even so, especially when added to your priestliness. Telling me of your princliness while halfway up a ladder, with leaf mould and dust all over your lovely white things was an excellent reminder that you are simply yourself.

Affectionately,

Merrill.

* * *

 

Dear Merrill,

Ah! I see I have been accorded affection. This is a great honour. I shall be sure to look as bedraggled and mortal as possible in your presence.

Your obedient mason,

S.V.

* * *

 

By the Dread  _Wolf_ , you are silly. I do hope you know that. I’m dashing this off on my way to visit Varric. Perhaps we shall meet before it reaches you.  I have something you may like. Hawke found it. You know how she is.  

In haste,

Merrill.

* * *

 

My lady,

It was wonderful to see you. I am glad the Chantry libraries provided some assistance on your quest. It seems as if you’re reaching needed places. It is an honour to watch.

In answer to your questions: no, I no longer know if my life in the Chantry is sanctuary or escape. It has been both, over time, but with Starkhaven unsettled, both these fates weigh heavy on me. And yet, I do not know what goodness I would bring to a realm that has not seen me since I was fifteen and honestly stupid. Those who remember me as I was will have no confidence in what I have become, and my family is, as you said once in a letter that haunts me still, lost to me.

I do not know how you knew that the locket Hawke picked up in her magpie way might be connected to me, but I thank you for saving it. It was my sister’s, and is one of the few material things my child-self remembers, thinking of her. A wild girl, Meg; that little bit of metal glinting as she watched me at archery from one of my father’s trees.  She laughed at me often; I deserved every bit of it.

I said I did not know how you knew, just now. That is me getting tangled in form, once more. I know how you sense the blood in the person, its links and its weaknesses and the ties it makes, dead to living. I have heard so many of our occasional company speak ill of it. I may be ignorant of magical things, and you have spoken eloquently and rightly on your own account, but let me say here that I think they are wrong, even when they are our friends.

Magic is a weapon and a gift. Andraste used her body in sacrifice. Your blood is your own to use, You gifted me part of my family. Know that I will stand by you in your hope to save yours, even when I do not understand it.  

My gratitude is not a worded thing, but know that I am

Your friend,

Sebastian Vael

 


End file.
